I had been in the garden for some minutes when I saw him appear, followed by his reader and a pretty spaniel. As soon as he saw me he accosted me, taking off his old hat, and pronouncing my name. Then he asked in a terrible voice what I wanted of him. This greeting surprised me, and my voice stuck in my throat.
"Well, speak out. Are you not the person who wrote to me?"
"Yes, sire, but I have forgotten everything now. I thought that I should not be awed by the majesty of a king, but I was mistaken. My lord-marshal should have warned me."
"Then he knows you? Let us walk. What is it that you want? What do you think of my garden?"
His enquiries after my needs and of his garden were simultaneous. To any other person I should have answered that I did not know anything about gardening, but this would have been equivalent to refusing to answer the question; and no monarch, even if he be a philosopher, could endure that. I therefore replied that I thought the garden superb.
"But," he said, "the gardens of Versailles are much finer."
"Yes, sire, but that is chiefly on account of the fountains."
"True, but it is not my fault; there is no water here. I have spent more than three hundred thousand crowns to get water, but unsuccessfully."
"Three hundred thousand crowns, sire! If your majesty had spent them all at once, the fountains should be here."
"Oh, oh! I see you are acquainted with hydraulics."